It’s My Writing Party

I don’t content plan. I don’t plan at all actually. I start typing just to make words, like jamming guitar in your room because it feels good and pisses off your mom.

Writing for the sake of it is a tuning of the mind, an exercise in scales and arpeggios as Marie from The Aristocats would say. It’s luxurious doodling; it’s ollying your big brother’s skateboard over and over in the back garden; it’s collaging scraps torn from glossy magazines to form a picture of your maybe life.

I don’t think too much about you. YOU, the you that is reading these lexical outbursts. If you’re not my mam I don’t know what you don’t want to read or what I say that makes you snark in your head. Frankly, that’s a friggin’ relief because I don’t place too much faith in my ability to deal with the opinions of others outside of my professional life, if such a distinction exists.

I’ve never even had the chance to write around your preferences and that’s a good thing. Often when a blog provokes a lot of interaction, it’s the beginning of the end. I know that sounds a lot like saying you only like obscure music and it’s ruined when everyone catches on but really: ‘I just write for me’ doesn’t usually work out when you have people telling you to kill yourself because you quite like the idea of equal marriage or pink shoes.

So, my writing remains largely unsullied by editing for a public. Naive, short-sighted and self-absorbed that may be, but thank God.

This blog has allowed me to riff endlessly on the nothing subjects that capture my attention, without the criticism and feedback I get in my real life as a writer. This is my three-year writing exercise. This is my cure for writer’s block.

And you’re all invited to the party. I reckon I could still squeeze everyone in my flat. Just don’t bring a mate.


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